


All Hands Lost

by Burning_Nightingale



Series: Back To Middle Earth Month 2012 [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Boats and Ships, Gen, Kinslaying, Original Character Death(s), POV Original Character, Sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A swanship flounders; a captain is lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Hands Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for B2MEM.
> 
> Fulfils; First Lines; “Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board.” Tropes; "Royals who do something" Horror; "Darkness, fog and shadows" Sil Fanon; "Kind Mandos" Waters; "Clouds"

Ships at a distance have every man’s wish on board; Atanyel believes he finally understands this phrase as he watches the first swanship flounder on the reef. The hidden rocks have torn a gaping gash in her side; seawater gushes in, and screams float out toward them on the wind.

Lord Fëanor’s ship does not turn to help, but then, it could do nothing anyway. No one can do anything but watch, wait, and wish. Wish for survivors, wish for their own ship to steer safely past the danger, and wish, perhaps, that they still had the chance to turn for home.

Atanyel has heard his crew muttering; they are afraid of the fog that has settled on the water, afraid of the darkness broken only by torch and starlight, afraid of the portentous words of the Vala who saw them off. The Doomsman’s prophecy still lingers in the ears of many, and he can tell some now wish they had ridden back to Tirion with Lord Fëanor’s brother.

He is not among them. If he had the choice to go back to Tirion now and forsake the following of Fëanor, he would not do so. Atanyel is loyal by nature, and kin to Fëanor besides; and his loyalty spurs him on where others have failed. “Courage, my friends!” he calls to the elves on the decks, “We shall make it through if we pull together!”

He is proved wrong, however. The hull catches on hidden crags of dark stone despite their desperate efforts to steer it away, and the water roars through the breach like an angry beast hungry for vengeance. The deck rolls and pitches and throws the first casualties into the foaming water. The ship slips lower, tilting to the starboard side until waves crash over the rails. Screams fill the air with terror as elves from below decks scrabble to escape while those above fight for something to hold, something to give them buoyancy and protection in the roiling ocean.

Atanyel doesn’t hesitate. He breaks off sections of wood and hands them to crew members, telling them to jump; he clears a blocked hatch of debris and hauls elves from below decks out into the open; he tells his first mate to go on without him as he leads the last party over the edge and into the water.

A captain should go down with his ship, after all.

The fog is all around him now, weighting down in heavy clouds far above his head. The sky is dark; there are no stars. The waves crash over the side and wash around his feet, but they seem to have lost their power. _Loyalty is my nature_ , he thinks to himself, _and I have been loyal to the end; to family, lord, honour and tradition._

It is these thoughts that give him the strength to stand firm as the hull finally cracks and breaks up under his feet, propelling him into the crushing dark.

He wakes again to cold, harsh, white light. It startles him after the inky black depths of sky and sea, even more so as he did not expect to wake again at all.

He sits up. The hall around him is seemingly endless, featureless white, hewn of strong and cold marble. There is no one else around; no one else to hear as he calls out. The world is blank, and the silence oppresses him so much that he curls up on the floor and hugs his knees to his chest.

 _Mandos’ halls…is_ this _the everlasting peace of death?_

A presence is suddenly there beside him. He shoots up to his feet, only to feel like cowering again.

The Vala in front of him is huge and imposing, elvish in shape but with wavering distinction of features, more like an elf-shaped shadow than a real person. Atanyel forces himself to stand tall; he is Atanyel of the House of the Crossed Sword, distant cousin to Finwë himself and twenty second in line for the throne. He will not cower before anyone, even if he is a Vala of Death.

“Bold thoughts, little one,” Námo booms contemptuously, “Do you wish to spend the rest of eternity in these halls?”

Atanyel musters his courage. “If that is the price for doing what I believe to be right, so be it.”

Námo nods in agreement. “So be it indeed. I have shepherded hundreds of lost Telerin souls to rest today, Kinslayer; comforted them as they wailed, sent them into a healing sleep in effort to close the wounds that weep upon their souls. Such mercy shall not fall on you.”

“Prejudiced you were and prejudiced you remain!” Atanyel accuses him. “The Telerin are at fault as well, do not forget it! They did not die idly; their arrows and knives fell on Noldorin necks also!”

Námo appears to become larger, filling the space of Atanyel’s vision until he has to look up to where he believes the Vala’s face to be. “You are overbold, Atanyel of the House of the Crossed Sword,” he rumbles, “Look not for rest in death, for you shall have it not.”

And with this the shadow of Námo dissipates, and Atanyel is left alone in the cold white hall. He lies upon the ground, but sleep will not come for long ages; and when it does, it is filled with nightmares of callous and indifferent cruelty. 


End file.
